


woman like a man

by longtime_lurker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Fueled by Ramen
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longtime_lurker/pseuds/longtime_lurker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(you want to get burned, you want to get turned, you want to get fucked inside out)</p>
            </blockquote>





	woman like a man

**Author's Note:**

> Set on the Young Wild Things tour, except I'm totally pretending they were all in one tourbus. title and summary from Damien Rice. originally posted to LiveJournal in October 2007.

Pete wakes up feeling a little displaced in his own body.

But then, Pete frequently feels a little displaced in his own body, so he doesn't give it a second thought.

-

He stumbles from his bunk to the bathroom, stupid with sleep, and picks a crumpled pair of jeans up off the floor, sniffs them. When he yanks them up over his underwear, they fit just the same as ever.

He leaves them hanging sloppily off his hipbones, unzipped and unbuttoned, while he tugs his tight t-shirt off over his head. And then, as he drops it to the ground, he notices right away. Something's off-kilter, unbalanced. At the same time that early-morning feeling returns, stronger now: like he doesn't quite fit in his own skin. Self-estrangement's not new for Pete, but this is an unfamiliar flavor.

He doesn't look down at his body; he looks up at the mirror, blinks twice and says, "Huh."

The person staring back has short hair, recently cut, sticking up every which way and makeup smudged dark into the laugh lines around sleepy eyes. A strong jaw with an inexplicable lack of morning stubble. Smooth olive-tan shoulders and a necklace of thorns tattooed just above small, rosy-tipped breasts.

Pete's first impression, embarrassingly enough, is: _heeeeey, hot._

After he reaches down between his legs, though, it's not quite as - well, okay. It's still pretty hot. Weird as hell, though.

\- 

Pete handles it the way he usually handles things.

"Patrick!" he yells.

There's some shuffling and cursing from the bunks, and a moment later Pete hears a very familiar voice - a world-spanning, top-selling, breathtakingly beautiful voice - sounding tired and more than a bit crabby right outside the door.

"Whazzafuck, Pete?"

Pete twists his face into the iconic Wentz grimace, experimentally, just to make sure. The chick in the mirror does it back.

"'Trick," he says, contemplative, "I'm not myself today."

A pause that is probably Patrick sighing, just softly so Pete won't hear. "Pete, did you take your meds?"

"Yeah," says Pete distractedly, still gazing at his reflection, "no, look," and he pulls the bathroom door open.

Patrick looks down, up, down, up, and goes a shade of white that any emo kid could be proud of.

-

(Patrick will always maintain, later, that he didn't _faint_ exactly.

It's just that he'd seen Pete's dick more times than he cared to count, and now he was looking at Pete's _tits,_ and his poor overtaxed brain just couldn't handle the disconnect. So it quit holding his legs up.

"Uh-huh," Pete will nod, "cognitive dissonance," and will refrain from mentioning the anxious five minutes he spent slapping Patrick's cheeks and unbuttoning his pajama top and seriously considering mouth-to-mouth.)

-

Joe can't stop laughing.

Andy just sighs and takes another slug of soda, says, _"Pete._ What did you do this time?"

Pete scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, glad that he'd at least had the good sense to put a shirt on before showing them. Jerks. "It's not my fault!"

Patrick's still a slightly alarming translucent color, and he barely touches his cereal as Pete explains what he can. Which isn't much.

-

He's not going to lie: the first day, he spends pretty much every spare moment in the bathroom mirror, mesmerized by his brand-new tits, touching and tickling and jiggling and prodding and poking. Then he gets used to them.

-

"The show must go on?" Patrick says uncertainly at their emergency post-Vaginagate band meeting.

Andy nods in agreement and Pete squares his shoulders and says, "At least it's not leaked nudes!" 

Joe's still laughing too hard to comment.

So Pete binds up his breasts - they're small and compact like the rest of his frame, it's not a major problem, although they ache at night when he lets them out - and goes out onstage in a concealing jacket. He plays desultory bass and throws himself around the stage until he's exhausted, just like always. He leans his mouth against Patrick's neck and feels Patrick shiver a little, just like always. Patrick's voice soars above the teenage hollers and reaching hands, pure gold, and Pete walks offstage half in love with him, just like always.

-

It's not as traumatic as you might expect, actually. Pete's been through weirder transitions, albeit most of those were on the inside.

Being a girl (being in a girl's body? Pete is not really clear on the semantics of this one) is not, as he'd half expected, like being an alien. He still likes sports and he still likes the makeup aisle. He says the same lame things and his moods yaw wildly and he eats the same disgusting tour food while arguing pronoun questions with his bandmates (that part's new). 

"Look, man - can I still call you man? - fuck - all I'm saying is that it's weird to try to say 'he' when you're looking at a set of tits, okay." 

"Well maybe if you _weren't looking_ at my tits all the damn time!"

Essentially, he's still (somewhat to his disappointment) Pete Wentz.

Patrick had immediately thought to worry about Pete's voice, and it's definitely a little higher, but not much, thank god. He just has to make sure to speak in the lower end of his range for interviews and phonecalls and concerts. The upper range he saves for experiments in the shower, singing old hardcore songs, enjoying the raw girlscream sound.

"Shut up, Pete!" yells Patrick from his bunk, where he's curled up with GarageBand, and Pete serenades him with a loud off-key rendition of "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman." Normally Patrick would punch him for that one, but he doesn't lay a hand on Pete this time. Pete is slightly disappointed by this.

Thank god for the androgyny of the scene, anyway. Mostly he puts on just as much eyeliner as ever, and wears two pairs of socks so that his old shoes will fit his slightly smaller feet, and hides in big hoodies which he doesn't change for days.

"You're still kinda shitty and dirty," observes Patrick, sounding faintly surprised, and Pete says, "Why the fuck wouldn't I be?" and hits him upside the head. Patrick may have some sort of don't-hit-girls shit going on, but Pete is not about to reciprocate.

-

Occasionally he pulls up the Sidekick photos on the Internet and looks nostalgically at his dick, wondering where exactly it is right now.

-

Monday morning and Pete's stepping out of the shower at ass o'clock in the morning (goddamn early radio interviews) with his hair dripping over his shoulders and a towel knotted around his waist and wandering out toward the lounge like a wet, topless, coffee-seeking zombie, as usual. There he runs into Patrick, who takes one look at him and literally, actually _squeaks._ It's kind of adorable.

"Pete!" Patrick is carefully looking anywhere but at him. Window, ceiling, furniture, apparently they're all suddenly fascinating. "You can't just go around like that!"

Pete glances down at the rivulets of water running down toward his navel, the droplets shimmering on his nipples, and feels suddenly and weirdly defensive of this new body of his. "Why the hell not?"

"Because," Patrick says helplessly, "...you're on a bus full of _guys."_

 _"I'm_ a guy. The fuck, Patrick? Nobody cared when it was my _dick."_

Patrick's got that trapped-animal look on again, and Pete grins and advances on him. "They're just tits, dude," (and wow, he'd never thought _those_ words would be coming out of his mouth,) "they're just another part of me. They're not, I don't know, fucking magic or toxic or something." He takes another step, smirking. "And you have to admit, I've got pretty decent ones, don't I?"

Patrick's eyes jerk from the rug to the couch to the fridge to Pete's face to Pete's chest, and he makes another squeaking noise and flees.

The bus door bangs shut behind him. Pete pushes a handful of wet hair out of his face. He glances down at his breasts, reaches up and cups one in his hand; feels the weight and the curve of it, and is surprised like he's never been before that such a little handful of flesh can be such a big damn deal.

-

For three weeks he deals with increasing levels of sexual frustration, hoping all the while that it'll just magically go away. Oh, god, what liar ever said that girls don't get horny like guys do? He's fucking _longing_ for it, yearning and melting and he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know how to touch himself. He can't even have a wet dream to relieve the pressure.

When it gets to a certain point Pete thinks _fuck it,_ locks himself in his hotel room, and experiments with hands and fantasies and the detachable showerhead. Generally he's pretty decent in bed with girls, and he figures that this'll be the same, but it isn't, quite. There's a good deal of painful poking, a great deal of tentative rubbing that's just not quite _enough,_ and he's intermittently frustrated with this body that looks so good but won't fucking cooperate.

But no one ever taught Pete that he wasn't supposed to like it, like the peaking of his nipples, the deep clench of his cunt when he's turned on. So finally, on a Friday night after a good show, adrenaline still racing through his blood, he figures it out: on his stomach, legs tangled in the blankets, thrashing. He has to bury his face in the pillow to muffle the little wordless sounds that he can't keep down as he comes and comes and comes under his own fingers.

He has to learn to read a different set of signs: warmth pooling slowly in his stomach, tingle up his spine, wet-hot glow between his legs. At night in the bunks he fucks up into his hand just as hard as ever, trying not to whimper, the muscles of his thighs and ankles and feet trembling and spasming so hard that they go numb and he has painful pins and needles to deal with when he finally comes down from the long hot throb of multiple orgasms. (Multiple! How sweet is that, seriously?) One hotel room even has a wide wall mirror, and Pete watches himself. It's not sexy like in porn. His face is too red and his hair, carefully straightened that morning, is messed all to hell. But there's something - in the curve of his back, maybe, or the way his fingers look working over his clit - that makes him watch anyway.

-

He has this vague, nonsensical idea that he's paying for the pleasure (even though he knows that makes no sense) when he spends the week after that quietly freaking out over the fact that he's _bleeding his insides out dear god._ The first night of the whole ordeal he actually starts to cry - to cry! - when Patrick makes some stupid, joking comment about absolutely nothing important, and has to go hide in his bunk and post long, rambling paragraphs of emo to his blog. 

Later he feels unbalanced and ashamed. He'd always thought that the whole hormone thing was really overexaggerated. Yeah, not so much.

Patrick hovers on the periphery of things, looking dismayed. Joe doesn't say anything, just goes out and buys Pete a pint of chocolate fudge chunk ice cream. Joe must be an incredible boyfriend. Pete has never before fully appreciated this fact.

"Hey, like, at least you know you're not pregnant," Andy says helpfully as Pete huddles into the couch, miserable with cramps, and takes another bite of ice cream.

Pete throws the spoon at Andy's head, and is surprised and pleased to find that his aim hasn't gotten any worse since he went female. Then he's surprised at himself for _being_ surprised.

He pats the couch for Patrick to join him, curls up dolefully in his lap.

"Can I try something?" Patrick says, sounding cautious. "I used to do this for Anna when she..." And he starts rubbing slow circles on Pete's lower back.

Pete exhales as the ache dissolves gradually under Patrick's touch. "Keep going...little lower... _yeah._ Stump, you're a magic man."

He knows without looking that Patrick's smiling. "Got the magic hands?"

"Mmm."

-

 _\- There are guitar calluses on the thumb and forefinger teasing at his nipple, the sensation of hot breath approaching between his spread thighs, and Pete groans and bucks, hard. Patrick raises his head and looks up at Pete through his eyelashes; and oh, god, if Pete still had his dick right now, he'd be coming all over himself, premature as_ fuck. _"'Trick," he says on a labored breath._

 _Patrick's got that particular wicked grin curving his lips, the one that means he's got one up on you and he_ knows _it. His fingers drift up to grip Pete's hips, almost too tight, not quite, as he looks Pete in the eye. His cheeks are flushed under the brim of his hat._

 _"Yeah, I'm going down on you," he says, very clearly, and he reaches up, turns his hat backwards, and bends his head again. Pete feels the tickle of sideburns against his inner thighs. He thinks of that mouth of Patrick's (that_ mouth _) and whimpers; and then Patrick's tongue meets the soft hot flesh between Pete's legs, and Pete stops thinking whatsoever._

 _He has to see, he can't help it, struggling up onto his elbows and craning his neck semi-painfully to look down. Patrick's shoulders are flexing as he holds Pete down against the bed, and his redgold hair looks fucking_ incredible _next to Pete's skin, and he's making these little soft intermittent murmuring_ noises _-_

 _His thighs won't stop tensing, trembling. Pete bucks up again, this time into Patrick's mouth, and oh, christ, he has to reach down and hold Patrick's head in place, he just has to. He can feel Patrick's grin against his skin; and then Patrick hums a little bit against his cunt, and it vibrates up into his whole body. He flicks his tongue hard - Pete doesn't scream, but it's a near thing - flicks and sucks and licks, and he's keeping it so constant, not stopping or missing a beat or letting Pete get a second to breathe, until Pete's hips start to snap up insistently all on their own, and then he_ drags _his lush lower lip up over Pete's clit and his mouth is so hot and wet and swollen and he's sliding three fingers in alongside his mouth, and pressing them into Pete, just the tips inside -_

Pete wakes up writhing, gulping in air, sheets sweaty and tangled around his body. He rolls over onto his stomach and exhales into the mattress, doesn't think about it, just shoves both hands into the wet curls between his legs and brings himself off four times in a row without stopping. 

Then he sinks back into sleep, exhausted.

He doesn't remember any of it in the morning.

-

Late afternoon in NYC, no show tonight, and Pete's feeling restless, reckless, itchy down to his bones. Tired of hiding.

He knows it's a stupid idea, but when did that ever prevent him? So he abandons his oversized sweatshirt and goes out and hits up the nearest little indiefuck boutique. Everything smells like clove cigarettes, there's some incredibly obscure band on the sound system, and the cashier and the two other customers in the store are hipster types who probably make an art form of not knowing who people like Pete Wentz are. Nobody looks twice at the chick with the big mouth and dykey haircut who hurries into the single dressing room with an armful of overpriced faux-vintage clothing.

In the interest of easing slowly into things, Pete starts out with skinny jeans and a Pink Floyd baby tee. Ruffling his hair up with one hand, he looks hopefully at the mirror. He looks exactly the same as he has every day for the last five years, minus the way his tits push out against the front of the shirt and stretch the Dark Side of the Moon refracting prism logo from a triangle into a weird sort of blob.

That's not what Pete's looking for. He may not be a "real" girl - whatever that means anyway - but damned if he doesn't feel like playing one tonight.

So he goes ahead and picks out the kind of thing that might attract _him_ on a woman: a short, tight skirt and a boned corset top. He has a bad ten minutes of it trying to get them on, wrestling with random straps and zippers everywhere. After he's finally managed to hold in his breath long enough to get the skirt done up, and nearly thrown his back out doing the corset hooks, he risks another glance at the mirror. He looks hot as shit - black lace against golden skin, crimson molded around curves - and feels too uncomfortable to move. The skirt pinches his waist. The lace itches horribly. The corset's digging into his ribs and he can't actually breathe all that well.

"Fuck _this,"_ Pete says out loud, and yanks it all off with no little difficulty. He stares at his reflection, contemplating the American female experience from new and unprecedented angles, as he grabs another hanger at random, something black and soft and swishy.

Before he's even got the garment over his head, he knows that this is more like it.

-

Pete waits till everyone else is off the bus before shutting himself in the bathroom. He shaves his legs and armpits slowly, painstakingly, only narrowly avoiding several nasty cuts. Paints his fingernails with black Sharpie, lines his eyes extra dark, spikes up his hair a little, even digs up a tube of lipgloss (which tastes and feels disgusting but looks killer shiny when he smiles). Then he pulls the little black dress out of the bag, takes a breath. Oh, he is _so_ doing this.

-

His luck holds: Angels & Kings is packed, there's even some FBR folk over in one corner, but nobody recognizes Pete. The spell of his not-drag is that strong. He takes a moment just to stand still and enjoy the blessed absence of camera flashes and crowding strangers. Tonight he can be utterly, gloriously anonymous behind the mask of femininity.

Walking up to the bar, he feels a strange, alien power in his lips and hips and eyes: it's the whisper of the silky fabric against his smooth-shaved skin, the weight of the necklace lying between his breasts, the long and lean and _dangerous_ feel of his legs in high heels. It's something like the rush of the stage, a thousand hands reaching for him, a thousand voices screaming his name. Not quite it, though, not quite - it's the way people look at him; the way their eyes run over his body, the way he can _make_ them look. Pete thinks he could maybe make them do other things, too, if he tried. 

It would be very easy to get addicted to the feeling, to this command.

(Except, of course, he's got razor burn on his ankles and his lingerie rucks up under the dress - he probably just should have forgone underwear entirely, but that was a risk even _he_ wasn't going to take - and he has to walk extra carefully because he hasn't quite gotten these stiletto things figured out yet, and who'd want to go through this every day?)

-

At the bar he orders a girly drink with a little umbrella and all that (he's always wanted to try them, but ordering a pink Flirtini on a night out with the guys...yeah, no.) Quite a few guys he doesn't know - and hey, look at that, a couple of girls too - send interested looks his way, and Pete thinks about it, because he'd really like to take the new equipment on a trial run at _some_ point. Eventually he lets some random good-looking hipster (male) buy him another drink and chat him up, being careful to modulate his voice and keep his legs crossed and not, not, _not_ snicker after giving his name as "Jeanae."

He overestimates the alcohol tolerance of this body (he's just starting to think of it as " _my_ body") and downs the second sugary pink cocktail during their conversation, with the consequence that he's already a little blitzed by the time someone steps up to do karaoke and Pete hears a very familiar voice launch into Prince's "I Wanna Be Your Lover." 

Oh shit.

He doesn't need to look over to know, but he does anyway. Patrick looks good tonight. He's in black too, hat included, and his hair shines like fire under the red lights. Under his initial frisson of panic, Pete feels the familiar heartclench that he associates with nobody else.

He tries to focus on blowing off Hipster Dude and finishing his drink and getting out of here somehow before Patrick sees him - because if anyone would know Pete in this get-up, it'd be Patrick - but Patrick's got a tipsy glow to him and he's singing, _I wanna be the only one you come for,_ hands curled around the microphone, and, well. Pete is not made of stone. He stays where he is, distractedly answering Hipster Dude's questions with details from other people's lives, and watches Patrick out of the corner of his eye.

Patrick finishes the song and steps down, laughing and resisting his friends' attempts to make him do more; and Pete babbles, "Sorry, gotta go," and makes a break for it. Except these goddamn tricky-ass shoes are slowing him down, and then Patrick's eyes flick over, and Pete realizes too late that _movement_ was a huge tactical error, because Patrick knows Pete's body language like the back of his hand. He can sure as hell pick out Pete's walk, the tilt of his head, the way he holds himself, from across a bar - and _shit,_ now he's grabbing his jacket and getting up and coming over and he sure moves quickly for such a little guy and Pete will totally trip if he tries to walk any faster, which is the one thing that would make this whole situation worse -

Patrick catches him right by the exit. He doesn't say a word, just closes his hand around Pete's wrist and yanks him out the door. The night's gotten colder, a chilly breeze coming up, and Pete shivers, wraps his arms around himself reflexively.

Patrick mutters something that sounds like, "For fuck's sake," and puts his jacket around Pete's shoulders. Pete says, "Thanks," and Patrick spins around and corners him up against the wall.

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking?" he hisses, face close. "Anybody could've seen you, anybody could've recognized you! I can just see the headlines: **FALL OUT BOY FRONTMAN'S SECRET SEXCHANGE SURGERY** , oh god."

Pete knows he's right, but he glares at Patrick anyway. "I was sick of hiding away."

A faulty streetlight flickers on weakly over their heads, illuminating the scene. Patrick takes a step back, two. He's staring at Pete, wide-eyed and pissed-off, cheeks flushed under the dim sodium light, not saying anything.

"What?" snaps Pete. His nipples are pebbling from the cold and the wind is blowing his skirt up around his thighs. He tries to smooth it down, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. Patrick's got the most peculiar look on his face. After all these years, Pete'd thought he'd memorized Patrick's whole catalogue of emotions, but this one's new.

The word echoes against the building and seems to shake Patrick out of his daze. "So you went out."

"Um." Pete looks down at himself. "Obviously."

Patrick's voice is quiet. "With someone?"

"No."

"Good." And with that cryptic pronouncement, Patrick grabs Pete's wrist again and hails a cab.

\- 

They've got a hotel tonight but Pete can't sleep for hours, half exhilarated and half on edge with an intense frustration that even a quick and dirty orgasm (courtesy of his own right hand) can't satisfy.

He curls his knees up against his stomach and thinks again of that unidentifiable look on Patrick's face, Patrick's heated cheeks and dark, steady eyes.

-

_\- His whole body is one intense throb. His breasts feel heavy and tight, he's wet between his legs and getting wetter by the second, and Patrick must be able to taste him, taste how totally, shamelessly turned on he is, how ready. How ready he is for Patrick; and it's the thought as much as anything that makes Pete moan. Patrick's got a rhythm going, of course he does: the slow repeated curl and pulse and uncurl of his tongue up into Pete's wet folds. He keeps it maddeningly steady (fucking drummers and their fucking drummer timing) and Pete is near frantic, he needs it faster, he needs it harder -_

_His thighs clench around Patrick's temples as he jerks his hips up, begs. "More, god,_ please." __

_Patrick stops, and raises his head, and Pete could just cry._

_"Oh, no," he says. "It's just not time for that yet, Pete." And he dips his head again, mouthing teasingly at Pete's clit, just enough to draw out the torture. He watches Pete's shudders increase, eyes satisfied and more than a little smug. Then he slides one hand slowly up, in, right where Pete is liquid wet and open, and licks down, tracing his tongue around his fingers inside Pete. Pete draws a broken breath as Patrick crooks his fingers, curls them up inside Pete's body until the pad of his middle finger hits_ that _spot. Patrick strokes, and Pete groans, and Patrick laughs a little, softly._

 _"Come on, you smug_ bastard," _Pete chokes out. Patrick tilts his head and nips at Pete's inner thigh, probably laughing again, and strokes just a little harder until Pete can't get out a sound that isn't a gasp._

_He's clenching tight around Patrick's fingers, can't control it now, and Patrick leans forward and exhales hotly over his clit at the same time as he twists his fingers inside Pete. This time Pete comes on a sob, sharp and high -_

At breakfast he blushes painfully when he sees Patrick, can't imagine why. It's not like he's _that_ embarrassed about what happened at the bar. Probably just more hormones or something.

-

That night they play Madison Square Garden and Pete's fucking tired, and still a trifle hungover, and annoyed that he can't wade into the crowd on "Saturday" these days for fear of being found out if some excited kid groped at his chest or got a good look at his crotch. People are already bitching about it on the Internet, a hundred variations on _fob arent liek they use to be they dont care bout teh fans anymore,_ and the whole thing is giving Pete a headache.

He begs off any and all afterparties, just retreats to the bus and makes a cup of cocoa and changes into cozy pajama pants and a tank top (one of his old wifebeaters, actually, that shrank in the wash) and crawls into Patrick's bunk and falls asleep waiting for him.

Pete's a light sleeper at the best of times, and he wakes up when Patrick clambers in. Patrick pauses a little when he sees Pete there, and he's not mad anymore - Patrick's tempers never last long - but he's got that _look_ on his face again, and what the fuck? It's not like Pete hasn't shared Patrick's bunk a million times before, blanket-hogging and drool on the pillows and all.

"'S just me," he mumbles muzzily at Patrick, stretching and shifting over to let him in, "we didn't get you a hooker or something, sorry."

Patrick's face relaxes into a smile. "Aw man." He joins Pete under the covers. Pete's a little smaller now; his curves fit better along Patrick's frame, and they actually almost-kinda-sorta fit into the bunk together.

Pete smiles sleepily back. "I'm just not that" - huge yawn - "not that kind of girl, Patrick Stump."

Next to him Patrick stills. "No?"

Pete burrows his face into Patrick's shoulder, laughs, his eyelids already heavy again. "Total lie." He's so _tired,_ has no idea if he's still teasing Patrick or not, doesn't really know what the fuck he's saying, but that's okay. He's always been able to trust Patrick with his words. "I would be for you," and he's out like a light.

-

He wakes again to darkness. His nose and cheek are squashed into Patrick's neck and Patrick's got a sleep-limp arm around his shoulder, both as per usual. The bus is silent. Joe is snoring from across the aisle.

Patrick sighs and shifts against Pete, stealing half the covers in the process. His leg twitches and in his sleep he mumbles a string of consonants against Pete's hair, and Pete smiles. These are his very favorite times, and he takes a moment just to breathe it in, the peace.

He's just closing his eyes to drift back into sleep, feeling all warm and fuzzy and Patrick-happy, when Patrick's hand uncurls from his shoulderblade and slips a little down, unconscious. The backs of his fingernails skid against the upper slope of Pete's right breast. And Pete tenses, sharply, suddenly, without even meaning to, because his nipples are tightening - first the right one, then the left - and there's a slow heat blossoming low in his abdomen and it feels so, _so_ good. 

Patrick must feel him stiffen, because a moment later he's stirring and lifting his head. "Mmphrgh?" he says, face all scrunched up. A pause, and then he snatches his hand away from Pete's skin like he's been burned.

Pete wants it back.

"'Trick," he says, and he's still not quite used to this new voice - to the soft, smoky things it can do.

He rolls to face Patrick. Patrick's breathing quickly against the pillow and his eyes are wide and dark in the curtain-filtered moonlight.

Pete frowns, and shifts, and feels Patrick rock-hard against his thigh.

Oh.

Oh, that explains so much, and suddenly everything below Pete's waist is melting into fire, and he looks at Patrick's stricken eyes and all at once a solid wall of dream-recall slams into him in vivid, filthy detail.

_Oh._

He acts on impulse. (He's very good at that.) "No," he whispers, and takes Patrick's hand, and brings it back to his breast.

Patrick breathes out, long, a little shuddery; says, "If you're fucking around with me, Pete, I'm going to punch you. Girl or no."

And Pete, well, he really sees no reason to be any more timid about these things now that he's a girl, so he just hooks a leg over Patrick's hip, straddles him and reaches down for a kiss. Their first.

Patrick swears softly against Pete's lips: it's unreasonably hot, that pretty young mouth shaping around a curse. And then he surges up and meets Pete fierce and hard, with tongue, and his skin is burning through the thin cotton of pajamas, and oh, jesus. Patrick is kissing him, really actually _kissing him,_ why have they never done this before, and Pete wants more already. He's aching for something he's never experienced.

He kisses back, feverish, and Patrick skims a fingertip across his nipple through the fabric. Pete's back arches - he honestly didn't know he was still so flexible - and he pulls back with a whine. It shades into outright groans when he grinds himself down onto Patrick's cock, pressure in his cunt and friction on his clit - he can _feel_ how wet he's getting, how ready - god, they can both feel it, he's soaking - and Pete just prays without words, desperate, for Patrick to understand. Because maybe it makes him incredibly easy, but he doesn't care, he needs Patrick inside him _right the fuck now._

Pete only realizes he's said the last bit out loud when Patrick's fingers clench on his hips and he says, rough against Pete's ear, "Are you sure? Tell me you're sure."

"Yes," Pete gasps, " _fuck_ yes, I'm sure." 

"You can't -" Pete feels eyelashes brush his skin as Patrick closes his eyes. "You can't go back from this one, Pete."

"Will you just shut up and fuck me already?"

"- seriously, have you even done _anything_ the way - the way you are now? Because full-on fucking is a big deal, okay -"

"- stop sounding like my _mom,_ I'm trying to have _sex,_ I don't want to think about -"

"- and I don't want this to be one of your, y'know, your stupid self-destructive things that you'll hate me for tomorrow -"

Pete groans. "Come _on._ Do you not want to, or something?"

Patrick rolls his eyes, glances down at his hard-on and back up, pointedly, at Pete. "Seriously?"

"That's what I thought," Pete says happily, and wraps his hand around Patrick's dick.

Patrick squeezes his eyes tight shut. "I just. I won't pretend I haven't thought about it, but - _ah_ \- it's you and me, Pete. You better be sure."

"Fuck off" - Pete looks at the tensed lines of Patrick's soft face - "I'd do anything you asked me to, you _have_ to know that already -" The words tumble out of his mouth, and Patrick inhales sharply, and then they're racing to skin their pants off, an inelegant tangle of legs and hands in the narrow bunk.

-

Even in dressing rooms, even for Bedussey, he's never seen so much of Patrick's skin at once. It's stupid, but it kind of reminds him of old Victorian porn: the soft, pale curves of arm and thigh slipping out of clothing. It's all the more erotic because Patrick usually covers himself up so thoroughly, and now there's all this new territory bared to Pete's eyes, unmapped, unmarked. He wishes for a huge king-sized bed to roll around in, space for him to spread out and touch Patrick's white wrists, ankles, knees, shoulders. Hips. Nipples. Mouth.

Patrick looks at him, eyes gone dark again. He slides a finger under the elastic band of Pete's tank top - his stupid stupid tank top that's totally getting in the way of skin on skin - and when he speaks it sends shivers down Pete's spine. "Want to see you."

Pete nods frantically and lifts up his arms.

He feels Patrick's hands (god, his graceful multitalented fucking _hands_ ) skim up his sides, pushing the fabric up; feels cool air ghosting over his nipples, making them harden even more; hears Patrick's breath hitch. Now all of their clothes are lost in the sheets, and Patrick drops his head to kiss Pete, lazier this time. His tongue flicks out over Pete's lower lip as his hands slide slow and easy down over the curve of Pete's breasts. His thumbs draw circles over Pete's nipples, and Pete moans out loud.

"God," Patrick whispers, brushing Pete's bangs out of his eyes, "I wish you could watch yourself. You look - _god,_ Pete." 

Pete arches up again, closing his eyes against the moonlight, head tilted back to thrust his chest forward and expose his throat. He feels intensely - it's stupid, but intensely _desirable_ in a way he never has before, Patrick's palms over his breasts, Patrick's mouth on his neck, Patrick's thigh between his legs. Patrick's thigh between his legs...Pete jerks his hips and is rewarded with friction, gorgeous friction, so perfect it almost hurts. He can't stop making the most embarrassing sounds, but Patrick doesn't seem to mind, judging by the way Patrick's grinding back against his hip and breathing against his skin, "Do you have _any_ idea how hot you make me," and this is even more surreal than waking up with a vagina.

"'S just the rack, isn't it," he manages, and right now is a fucking fabulous time to shoot his mouth off like an idiot, good going, Wentz.

Patrick laughs a little, nuzzling right below Pete's ear. "It's really not," but Pete's zoned out, mind following the trail of Patrick's hand down over his abs; and when he slips it between Pete's thighs, down where it's wet and warm, Pete sees sparks behind his eyelids.

"No one's - no one's ever touched you here before," Patrick says, and his voice is low, so _low,_ and fucking beautiful, and Pete is completely, uncannily under its spell. He wasn't lying; he'd do anything Patrick asked right now, anything at all.

He gasps out, "No. No one. You're the first," breath coming short and hard.

Patrick smiles.

-

On the third finger, Patrick finds that place deep inside him that Pete's read about, dreamed about, possibly even googled a couple of times, but never actually been able to reach in all of his solo experimentation. For a moment the pressure is just weird, like he's about to pee, and then something shifts and the bottom drops out of Pete's stomach and no, wait, he's about to _come._

_"Patrick."_

"Okay, okay." Patrick shifts between his legs, then stops with a curse, pulls back, starts rummaging through a toothbrush case that's crammed down the side of the bunk. Pete hears a muffled, "Yes!" and Patrick emerges holding a condom packet.

Pete frowns. "Do we have to?"

Patrick just looks at him. "Pete."

"'M clean, you know."

"Pete!"

"What?"

"Dude. Girlparts." Patrick waves his hands expressively. His cheeks are red. Pete thinks it's kind of funny that this guy was whispering the filthiest things in his ear five minutes ago, unblushing. "Like. Pregnant?"

"...oh, shit. I totally forgot." 

Patrick's rolling the condom down, crawling back up over Pete, laughing. "That could have been bad."

Pete is absolutely not thinking about little red-haired dark-eyed kiddies right now, nope, no way.

-

When Patrick slides inside him, slowly, oh so carefully, Pete bites clear through his lip. It hurts some, still, even after Patrick's fingers, but then he shifts his hips to a slightly different angle, figures out how to relax muscles that he's never used before, and his body's giving and there, _there,_ Patrick's inside him. Jesus, _Patrick's inside him._ Pete's never saying a word against cock ever again.

Above him, Patrick's mouth twists like he's in pain. _"Fuck,_ oh, fuck, you're tight."

"Of course I am," Pete pants, "you're deflowering me, remember?"

Patrick bangs his head against Pete's shoulder. "Do not. Remind me. About the. Virgin thing." He moves inside Pete, slow drag out and in again, somewhat gingerly. "This is gonna be over soon enough as it _is."_

"Virgin virgin virgin virgin virgin," Pete says with an obnoxious grin, licking Patrick's cheek, and then, "'Trick, hey. Do that again."

Patrick does. And then again, and again, a slow rocking rhythm of strokes in and out, Pete's hips thrusting up to meet him, and Patrick kisses him and touches his face and he's lost. His head's a chorus of _finallyfinallyPatrickfinally_ as Patrick bends his back enough to suck gently on Pete's nipples, rubs one index finger soft and steady over Pete's clit, their moans blending in the hot, close air of the bunk. He's thick and solid inside Pete's body, hitting that sweet, vulnerable spot inside over and over, still hurting but it's the best hurt Pete's ever felt.

And when Patrick whispers, "Pete," into smooth girl skin, Pete closes his eyes and thinks _I love-_ and comes shuddering apart against the onslaught of sensation.

It's waves and waves and he's tightening impossibly around Patrick, _yesyesyes,_ scraping his nails up Patrick's back, and that makes Patrick cry out loud - a sweet broken note - and finish all the way inside of him.

-

Back in the day, when they first got big enough that people starting writing Fall Out Boy pornography on the Internet, Andy had said something to the effect that Pete and Patrick didn't _need_ to have sex: when it came down to it, they were already as close as two people could get.

Pete had agreed then, and now, lying next to Patrick (who's snuffling a little in his sleep), he still believes it. But oh, man, the sex is a hell of a nice bonus.

-

He's still a girl the next morning. 

But that's okay, in fact it's so much more than okay, because he wakes up to Patrick murmuring in his ear, "Morning, Pete, I'm gonna go down on you."

For a long second Pete thinks _recurring dream_ and has to resist the urge to pinch himself. "Yes please," he manages.

He feels Patrick grin against his cheek. 

"My mouth is gonna be occupied," Patrick says (and Pete jerks, because he still hasn't gotten over that mouth), "so let me tell you now what I'm gonna do to you."

His fingers pinch lightly at Pete's nipples - they're both naked, still, too tired last night to pull pajamas back on - and Pete closes his eyes, because _Patrick talking about sex_ is literally almost too hot for him to handle. He's always kind of wondered (yeah, he lies awake nights thinking about weird, inappropriate shit like this) if Patrick was maybe a little smoother in the sack than you might guess from his usual demeanor, but he hadn't expected _this._ Patrick's voice. Ohgod.

"I'm gonna taste you," Patrick says, soft. "I'm gonna lick up inside you and twist you open with my tongue. I'm gonna get you wet for me, maybe I'll fuck you a little with my fingers - would you like that?" Pete can only hiss in reply, but Patrick seems more than satisfied with that. "And then I'm gonna kiss you right _there"_ \- a wet-licked palm slides flat against Pete's clit, and Pete's body convulses.

"Put my mouth there, right there where it feels good, so good it hurts," Patrick's breathing low and dirty in his ear, "and you're gonna come for me, Pete, you're gonna come around my tongue -"

Pete is pretty sure he's gonna come _right this minute_ , is what. "Christ, Patrick," he chokes, "please, just."

Patrick grins again, and slides down, and Pete can only groan helplessly because he knows how this one goes.

-

He knocks Patrick's hat off with his thrashing when he comes.

-

They emerge well after lunchtime, all tousled hair and post-coital flush and silly smiles, to find Joe and Andy looking at them all shifty-eyed.

"...Oh," Pete says, "bunks. Right. Sorry? All his fault."

"Don't blame _me_ 'cause you're a screamer," Patrick says _sotto voce,_ and Pete pinches his ass.

"Screams like a girl!" says Joe. "Oh, wait."

"Dude, don't make me hit you. Because I _will_ hit you."

"...Like a girl, right? Hahahaha. Hey, ow!"

-

Pete's stuck at some tiresome business lunch, tits strapped down again and hidden under a suitjacket, bored and covertly texting Patrick under the table. _its been almost 2 mths. i dont think ican handle pms again._

Patrick's reply comes ten minutes later in the ridiculous correct-and-proper English that Patrick uses even in, like, AIM. _I looked at that for a really long time before I figured out you didn't mean my initials._

Pete hides a smile behind his napkin. _oops. stilldont kno what ur parents were thnkin there._ And then, because Pete is just this way, because he always has to discuss his own destruction: _i changed once trick, whatif i chagne back._ He pauses, adds, _i dont want 2 losethis,_ deletes that, types, _u wouldnt want,_ deletes that too, and presses send.

Patrick's reply floats back. _What if you do?_

The question mark hangs in the air, taunting him. 

-

Covert makeout sessions against venue walls. Squabbles that turn into wrestling matches that turn into fucking on the couch. Murmured endearments between sex and sleep. The shocking intimacy of Patrick inside him. 

Pete stores them all up inside, memorizing tastes and sounds and sensations before the clock strikes midnight, before the gown comes off and the prince is gone. Or something. Mostly he luxuriates in woe and overblown fairytale metaphors and makes some more depressing blog posts.

Patrick keeps looking at Pete - backstage, on the bus, in bed - like he wants to say something, like he wants to Talk About It, but Pete makes sure to give him no openings. He just - he wants to enjoy this while he can.

-

Pete wakes up in the grip of that displaced feeling again.

He doesn't need to look in the mirror; he just glances down his body, and sure enough. His tits are gone, making his shoulders feel like they've been hung wrong. There's a familiar-unfamiliar weight between his legs. Morning wood. Pete thinks of last night, his voice catching on a moan as Patrick slid half his hand inside of him, and feels a pang.

He has to really scrounge around in his suitcases to find a razor that's not a purple Gillette Venus and underwear that is not from Victoria's Secret, and he's just coming out of the bathroom, wiping toothpaste foam off his mouth, when Patrick stirs in the (great, big, wide, beautiful, oh-so-incredibly-sex-friendly) hotel bed.

"Hey," says Pete softly, and curls up against him. That, at least, is definitely safe.

"Hey yourself." Patrick rubs his hand over his face and smiles at Pete in between yawns.

"Hey," says Pete again, and fuck, fuck, he is so _scared_ right now. "Patrick, look."

Patrick's face contorts around another yawn. "What?"

 _"Look at me,"_ says Pete, a little desperately.

Patrick squints at him. _"What?"_ And then he snorts. "Dude, at 2:30 a.m. I woke up because you were humping my leg in your sleep, vag edition. And at 3:45 I woke up again because you were humping my leg in your sleep, boner edition." His eyes drop down along Pete's body, and he's smiling a little. "Trust me. I noticed already."

"...Oh."

"Did you seriously think - you douchebag." Patrick flicks Pete on the nose, and this wouldn't be the first time that Pete's raced to conclusions, built something up in his head to be big and tragic, only for Patrick to turn the mountain back into a molehill with a few words and a smile. Not nearly. "You, okay? _You._ Not the - not the _parts,_ jesus."

"I had such awesome tits though." Pete's gone stupid with relief.

"You did," Patrick confirms, "have such awesome tits." But he's brushing the backs of his knuckles against Pete's hard-on through the sheets, and Pete is pretty definitely positively sure that this is okay too. "Oh," he says again.

"Yeah," Patrick says, "I was going to wake you up with a blowjob. But you foiled my plans by getting up early, asshole." He rolls over onto Pete and rocks against him, trapping his wrists against the pillow, grinning wider.

Their cocks slide together. _"Oh,"_ repeats Pete, with feeling.

\- 

After they've both come, panting and rubbing up against each other like a couple of teenagers, Patrick falls back asleep and Pete goes out and runs up and down the hallway in nothing but boxers and maybe hollers a little bit, because he's got some joy he needs to let off. And also just because he can.

"Mornin'," Andy says when he knocks on their door, out of breath. "Oh, hey, you got your dick back! Congratulations, man." He high-fives Pete.

"I did," says Pete absently, "yeah," and doesn't try to explain that he's lost something, too.

-

Joe apparently wake-and-baked today, because they're halfway through their Starbucks run before he notices anything.

"You were more decorative as a chick," he grouses, and Patrick thwaps him with a straw.

"You thought it was _funny!"_ Pete is outraged.

Laconic shrug. "When you think about it, dudes are a lot funnier, really. I mean, take dicks, who the fuck came up with that shit?"

Pete is tempted to agree until he remembers the slick friction of Patrick against him this morning, and oh, great, his own dick is apparently making up for its prolonged absence by giving him everlasting erections every time he thinks about Patrick. Or talks to Patrick. Or looks at Patrick licking latte foam off the curve of his upper lip. Pete frowns down at his lap. In some ways, his last body was an improvement.

He'll miss it. But he thinks of Patrick's warm eyes on him this morning, and figures he can maybe work with what he has.

-

A tech signals: _five minutes to showtime._ Pete is bouncing on the balls of his feet. Tonight he's going to dive into the crowd until they _squash_ him, and it's going to be awesome. And then he's going to go back to the hotel and let Patrick lick every bruise on his body.

"Hey, do me a favor," Patrick whispers in his ear, right before they step onstage. "Keep the black dress."

Yeah. Yeah, Pete can totally work with this.


End file.
